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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056158">Holes In the Floor of Heaven</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reign_of_Glory/pseuds/Reign_of_Glory'>Reign_of_Glory</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/UwUOwOimsorry/pseuds/UwUOwOimsorry'>UwUOwOimsorry</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holes In The Floor of Heaven [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Hamilton - Miranda, Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy &amp; O'Keefe, Six - Marlow/Moss, The Good Place (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Beheading, Conan as Michael, Fake Soulmates, Gen, Gunshots, Heather Chandler is an Idiot, Poisoning, TW - mentions of blood, Think if The Good Place was Detroit, a little bit of swearing, but lets hope its this, but make it good crack, enjoy this, haemoptysis, is there good crack?, more characters will come, oh boy is this crack, slight humour, whatever this may be, who knows - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:02:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reign_of_Glory/pseuds/Reign_of_Glory, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UwUOwOimsorry/pseuds/UwUOwOimsorry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Still, as she sat in the big leather chair, her grey eyes widened a minuscule amount at his words. “What. The. Fork.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anne Boleyn/Catherine of Aragon, Connor/Heather Duke, Heather Chandler/Veronica Sawyer, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Holes In The Floor of Heaven [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775590</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Holes In the Floor of Heaven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
Heather’s head ached. Last night, she’d clearly forgotten about the setbacks of alcohol; one in particular was bothering her this morning: a hangover.
</p><p>
It didn’t help that the poor girl was being <em>yelled</em> at. Perhaps it wasn’t yelling; maybe it was  Nevertheless, it was a voice Heather didn’t want to hear. “Heather!” The newcomer shouted again, and Heather wanted to respond with a shrill, <em>”Get out!”</em>
</p><p>
She didn’t, however. Instead, she raised her pounding head off her pillow, groaning a simple, “What?” She heard Veronica walk up the stairs, opening the door to her room, and she raised a single eyebrow, sitting up. “Veronica,” Heather drawled, smirking. “And Jesse James. Quelle surprise. Hear about Veronica’s affection for regurgitation?”
</p><p>
The submissive expression on Veronica’s face nearly made Heather burst out laughing, but she bit it back, keeping a cheeky smirk on her lips. “We both said a lot of things that didn’t mean, last night.” Oh, last night. Last night had sucked. Heather honestly hadn’t been too angry about the puke on her shoes; she could always buy new ones - that had just been her breaking point.
</p><p>
“Did we?” Heather responded, her tone clipped. She changed the subject before allowing Veronica to answer, momentarily ignoring the pain in her skull. “How the hell’d you get in here?”
</p><p>
She’d expected a lot of outcomes, but certainly not one where Jason Dean spoke up. The trench-coat clad man stepped forward, his smirk nearly mirroring Heather’s. “Veronica knew you’d have a hangover,” he explained, his tone just like Heather’s when she wanted something. The blonde felt a shiver run up her spine. “So I whipped this up.” He sounded like David, just a bit. The same tone of voice. “Family recipe.”
</p><p>
He held out a ceramic mug, and Heather snorted as she took a glance at it. “Did you put a phlegm globber in it or something? I’m not drinking that piss,” she said, keeping her tone light. Everything was fine; she was in control of this.
</p><p>
Jason sighed, looking at her as if she was an insignificant little speck. “I knew this stuff would be too intense,” he muttered, shooting a glance at Veronica, who stood behind him. Was he calling her bluff? Could he tell she was scared?
</p><p>
Well, two could play at that game. “Intense? Grow up. You think I’ll drink it just because you call me <em>chicken?”</em> The look that Jason and Veronica share makes Heather pause. They do, don’t they? If she didn’t drink it, it would prove their hypothesis correct. However, if Heather took the mug… There were worse things than globs of spit. She’d be fine. “Just give me the cup, jerk,” Heather said, rising from her bed and walking up to the duo in a stride of fury. 
</p><p>
JD did not stop her from taking it; in fact, his smirk grew just a little when she took the mug from his grasp. She lifted it to her head, maintaining eye contact with him as she downed the contents. <em>Ew, it didn’t taste like this-</em>
</p><p>
She hardly realised what she was doing before she was bent forward. God, maybe she should have gone with her family to Grandma’s, she thought as her hands clasped around her throat as if that would create a passageway for air. Maybe they would have bought her -
</p><p>
<em>”Corn Nuts!”</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
Philip Hamilton. On his way to find George Eacker. The man that talked <em>shit</em> about his father. He couldn't let that happen. 
</p><p>
He found a small group of ladies. <em>Good! I need help finding him it seems,</em> He thought, smiling and going over. "Ladies, I'm looking for Mr George Eacker. Made a speech last week, our Fourth of July speaker. He ruined my father's legacy in front of a crowd. I can't have that," he told them, a smile found on his face.
</p><p>
One of them spoke up, "I saw him up Broadway, just a couple of blocks. He was going to see a play." 
</p><p>
"Well then, thank you ladies, I guess I'll have to visit his box," Philip said, starting off.
</p><p>
"Oh god, you're such a fox!" One of them said, wringing her hands a little as she spoke.
</p><p>
Philip looked back, interested, of course. "And y'all look pretty good in your frocks. How about when I get back, we all strip down to our socks?" He suggested. The girls nodded, smiling wide.
</p><p>
"Okay!" They chorused, giggling excitedly as Philip continued on to the theatre. He chuckled, he really was a dog.
</p><p>
He eventually strode into the theatre, finding George Eacker easily. "George!" He said, almost dashing into the box. He was hushed angrily. "George!" Philip repeated.
</p><p>
"Shh! Can't you see I'm trying to watch the show?!" Eacker hissed, not looking at Philip. Not a glance even.
</p><p>
"You should have watched your mouth before you spoke about my father though!" Philip rebutted.
</p><p>
"I didn't say anything that wasn't true! Your father is a scoundrel, and so it seems you are too!" Eacker told him, still not looking at Philip, who got angrier each word he said.
</p><p>
"Oh, so it's like that huh?" Philip growled, clenching his fists.
</p><p>
"Yeah I don't fool around, I'm not like your schoolboy friends!" George cackled.
</p><p>
"See you on the duelling ground, that is, unless you wanna step outside and go now?" He said, crossing his arms.
</p><p>
"I know where to find you, piss off! I'm watching this show now! Shh!" Eacker hissed again, shooing him vaguely.
</p><p>
Philip smiled again slyly. He ran off home, thinking of what to tell his father. "Pops, if you had only heard the shit he said about you! I doubt you have let it slide so easily and I was not about to let it-" he got to slow down. "I came to ask you for advice. This is my very first duel and they don't teach this kind of thing in any school."
</p><p>
"Did your friends try to negotiate a peace?" Philip's father asked, giving a worried look.
</p><p>
"He refused to apologise, we had to let the peace talks cease." 
</p><p>
"Where is this happening?" Philip paused at the question.
</p><p>
"Just across the river, in New Jersey," he answered quietly.
</p><p>
"Everything is legal in New Jersey…" Both father and son chorused.
</p><p>
Alexander sighed, "Alright. So this is what you're gonna do: stand there like a man until Eacker is in front of you. When the time comes you will fire your weapon in the air, this will put an end to the whole affair."
</p><p>
"But what if he decides to shoot? Then I'm a goner-"
</p><p>
"No. He'll follow suit if he's truly a man of honour. To take someone's life, that is something you can't shake. Philip, your mother can't take another heartbreak." His father had put his hands on his shoulders.
</p><p>
"Father-" he tried to speak, despite the fact, his father wasn't done talking.
</p><p>
"Promise me, Philip. You don't want this young man's blood on your conscience."
</p><p>
"Ok, I promise." Philip nodded, a determined look on his face.
</p><p>
"Come back home when you're done. Take my guns. Be smart. Make me proud, son," he told Philip as he watched his son stride off.
</p><p>
He talked to himself a little on the way. "My name is Philip. I am a poet. I'm a little nervous, but I can't show it. I'm sorry I'm a Hamilton with pride. You talk about my father, I cannot let it slide."--he stopped, spotting George Eacker as he walked up.--"Mister Eacker! How was the rest of your show?"
</p><p>
"I'd rather skip the pleasantries, let's go. Grab your pistol," Eacker commanded.
</p><p>
"Confer with your men! The duel will commence after we count to ten!" Philip said, trying not to shake. <em>Look 'em in the eye, aim no higher. Summon all the courage you require. Then slowly and clearly aim your gun towards the sky-</em> He counted to himself, taking a deep breath.
</p><p>
Before he could finish counting he was shot square in the chest. After all of this, it was all blurry, probably from the blood loss. <em>No no no…</em> He thought, the only thing his mind was clear enough to think. He could barely notice anything, other than, of course, his mother crying over him, begging him to stay alive. Both parents were kneeled over him, Eliza, his mother, trying to get him to stay calm by counting in French…
</p><p>
Until it all went dark.
</p>
<hr/><p>
Catherine lay on a bed, chest heaving, sweat making the sheets stick to her frame. Her heart was pounding, and she was tired. She’d been coughing up blood all week. If only her husband hadn’t cast her away for some harlot. She might still be queen, still be living, still be strong.
</p><p>
But here she was, her heart broken. While she meant it metaphorically in the way she thought of it, there was a cynical undertone to the Spanish woman’s thoughts. Her chest ached; what if her heart was actually broken. It was entirely plausible, she supposed, to be suffering from a broken heart.
</p><p>
Catherine laughed to herself, the noise incredibly weak. There was a tight feeling in her chest, reminiscent of the time one of her ladies had laced her corset much too tightly. It felt almost as if a weight was sitting on the woman’s chest, restricting her lungs from their usual movement.
</p><p>
She yearned to see her daughter, to know how her teenage Mary was doing. Maybe her heart wasn’t only broken due to her lack of a husband or the feeling of being cast away; no, perhaps she merely missed her daughter.
</p><p>
As Catherine fought for each breath, she thought that wasn’t the case. There had to be more to this. Was this what dying felt like? She certainly thought so. The pain was numbing and intense at the same time, and she knew it had been in her chest for a long time. Within the years her husband had cheated on her, her heart had been poisoned. Perhaps it was bitter feelings that caused this pain, she thought, fighting to even her laboured breathing.
</p><p>
She had Mary in her mind as her head hit the pillow beneath her, her hair sticking to her skin, which was damp with sweat. The sheets felt as if they were suffocating the woman, and she came to the realisation that she might be breathing her last soon. It was easy to blame her husband for what she assumed was going to be her last few days, and it was even easier to blame him for the fact that her days had been spent in agony for the past few years.
</p><p>
Yes, her heart was broken by him. But he had kept her daughter from her, and there was no part of Catherine that would forgive him. It hurt to think of Mary, or Henry, or anything. Her entire body ached as she struggled for breath. Her chest spasmed, and the Spanish woman coughed up more blood, her cheeks flushed with the effort of breathing.
</p><p>
“Sleep,” a maid said, her voice soft. Catherine could not see her, but she allowed her half-lidded eyes to flutter shut, and darkness washed over her as her whole being seemed to relax in the grasp of unconsciousness.
</p>
<hr/><p>
No. He had to run. His legs felt they were about to give out or go numb, but he couldn't stop. Not now. <em>Especially</em> not in this situation. Fuck. He had to stop and take a breather, but couldn't.
</p><p>
What was he running from again? He couldn't remember. Except it would be a certain demise. He didn't want to die. Not now. Not ever.
</p><p>
He shook his head, trying to get the tears from the thought outta his eyes, but it was useless. He slid around a corner, at last, panting and leaning against the wall as best he could. Again, it was useless. The looming figure caught up.
</p><p>
It was a good foot or two taller than him, a savage and demented expression plastered messily on its face. Gavin didn't think he'd be absolutely petrified of anything in life. But he stood corrected.
</p><p>
"No no no, I can't die. No no!" He screeched, trying to shield himself uselessly, curling up. It was to no avail. He could hear the sirens but they weren't anywhere near him. He wished they could be. This was in a dead part of town, but it was still in broad daylight.
</p><p>
No, no, fuck. Why was he being attacked? Oh well, he tried to unfurl and get far away, but he didn't know the figure had a DPD issue pistol. How'd it get that? Never mind that. He tried to get as far away as he could.
</p><p>
A cold bullet hit his left shoulder. <em>No. No. No. No. This can't be happening. Ow.</em> He thinks, gripping his shoulder like that'll stop the pain. Gav cringed as he let go and tried to find a safe place…
</p><p>
Right. Right. All Gavin had to do was calmly find- The detective wasn't very far away, maybe 50 feet.
</p><p>
That was maybe the worst moment. Right when he heard another gunshot, and before he knew it, it was too late. He got shot in the spine
</p><p>
Only Androids could shoot with such precision. And from that distance? Impossible for any human too with such a small arm.
</p><p>
"Fuck!" He yelled as he fell to his knees. The figure cackles as it approaches.
</p><p>
"I told you to stay away from my territory… Detective," it hissed before disappearing completely.
</p><p>
No no no shit. Gavin might have cursed too much, but that was the absolute least of his worries. The rest of the DPD team wouldn't get there in time. He'd be left to bleed in the frigid snow. He lost feeling of… everything real quick. He took a deep breath, accepting it.
</p><p>
A tear slipped down his face before he closed his eyes. Might as well get this over with. It was only logical. He laid down in the fluffy snow, sinking through the 2-inch snow before hitting the icy concrete.
</p><p>
"Might as well accept it. I wished I had done better. Wish I had done more in life… only, 36… but I still dreamed as a kid would," He croaked to the silent wind. "God if only I hadn't been so mean to… to e-everyone…"
</p><p>
An ironic smile weakly flashed on his face. 
</p><p>
Gavin heaved a sigh. 
</p><p>
<em>His last.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
Anne Boleyn was not ready. She had so much left to do, so much <em>potential</em>, and it was all going to waste. Plus, she had a daughter. She had Elizabeth to raise and nurture, to watch grow into a strong young woman.
</p><p>
Besides, it wasn’t as if she had really committed adultery. This was clearly a scheme, and it was obvious someone would realise that. She hoped… 
</p><p>
It may have been meant as a consolation, that her brother would die with her. He had also been unjustly condemned to death - because of her. It could also have been an awful joke. Another innocent, dying because of her. If anything, Anne would have given her life, would have forced herself to believe that she truly was a whore, a slut, whatever - if only it would save George.
</p><p>
And then Elizabeth. <em>Dear Lord,</em> she thought, <em>Please protect my daughter.</em> The woman dropped to her knees in the dark room of the Tower, feeling something tighten in her gut. <em>That wench won’t be kind to her.</em> She clasped her pale hands together, bowing her head in prayer. <em>”And, Almighty Father, please leave my name - and that of my family - untarnished, for I know I will be forced to leave this earth.”</em> She said the last words aloud, uttering them softly - but still her voice echoed around the room.
</p><p>
It was in no way a room befitting a queen, but in all honesty, could she even be considered a queen anymore? She had been defamed as a slut, just as her elder sister had been in France. She was <em>hated</em> by most, save for perhaps Elizabeth and a few ladies-in-waiting. And to think of how Jane - it hurt to think the woman’s name; who was truly the slut in this situation? - might treat Elizabeth made Anne’s heart ache considerably.
</p><p>
Would Elizabeth be there tomorrow? Would the little redheaded girl, the girl who had her mother’s eyes, would she be able to witness Anne’s impending gruesome death? Would Elizabeth have nightmares of bloody severed heads as she grew older, running to Mary’s room and waking the princess up in the wee hours of the morning?
</p><p>
Tears began to prick the brown-haired woman’s eyes, and she had to restrain herself from collapsing on the cold ground beneath her. <em>”Pourquoi?”</em> she asked the air softly, using French. French was one language that had not been used against her, and while it had slandered her sister, she found it comforting. <em>”Pourquoi fallait-il que ce soit moi?”</em> Anne murmured, her voice thick with tears. It felt to her as if her throat were closing up. Perhaps that would be welcome, she mused, and a great deal less painful than a beheading.
</p><p>
Anne’s eyelids began to droop as she remained frozen on her knees, and she soon realised she was beginning to fall asleep. A shiver ran up her spine as she thought about the horrors to arrive with the new dawn, and a sob escaped her lips, tears once more cascading down her pale, freckled cheeks. What had she done to deserve <em>death</em>? Surely her marriage to Henry could have been annulled, too! Perhaps she could have found a way to see Elizabeth then.
</p><p>
Anne let out a small whimper, loathing herself for showing such weakness. She needed to stay strong; she needed to keep up the guise of a queen. She may no longer have been one in name, but she would retain her appearance as one. 
</p><p>
She crawled to her feet only to slump against the wall of the Tower, fighting back the tears to no avail. Beheading. It was a terrifying concept in itself, something that hardly anyone should ever need to go through. Trying to keep herself awake, Anne thought of all the possible outcomes - what if the blade didn’t cut through her neck cleanly? What if, after being cut off, a person’s head remained able to feel pain. Surely that would be a nightmare.
</p><p>
Her eyelids drooped further, the occasional tear leaking from them as Anne tried to even her breathing. She was tired indeed, but would it matter if she was well-rested tomorrow? She didn’t wish to fall asleep; spending her last hours alive unconscious would hardly be useful.
</p><p>
She stood and walked to the bed that had been provided, staring at it with loathing swimming in the depths of her mocha eyes. It was nothing like the beds she had slept in anywhere else in her life. With a heavy sigh, Anne sat on the mattress, emotion welling up inside her once again. Perhaps death would be a mercy compared to being sent away, for she figured that was her only other option.
</p><p>
She didn’t get to ponder that before she collapsed onto the mattress, darkness washing over her as she fell asleep.
</p><p>
The next morning, Anne woke up before the guards rushed in to take her to the scaffold. She kept her chin up and her gaze angled down as she walked with them, arms behind her back. She couldn’t show fear. The pounding of her heart sounded in her ears, and internally, she wanted to scream and force herself away from this situation - but she knew it would be of no use.
</p><p>
They’d find her, even if she escaped. Who knew what a manipulative slut would get up to somewhere else?
</p><p>
Anne nearly chuckled to herself, but then she was brought back out of her mind. The cheers of the crowd reached her ears, and tears threatened to form behind her eyes once more. They were cheering for her to die in a gruesome fashion. That did not deter the woman, however; she kept her posture straight and a small smile on her lips. One might even call it a smirk of sorts. 
</p><p>
She was instructed to lay her head on the scaffold block, blindfolded. The blindfolding didn’t make it any better, she supposed; if anything, it made her skin crawl. Nevertheless, she kept an easy smile on her face, knowing it wouldn’t last for long. Maybe it would last, actually, after her head was cut off. She couldn’t be sure; she’d never been decapitated before.
</p><p>
She heard no count-down, and she doubted there would be one. Even if the executioner gave her a warning, she was likely not to hear it with the noise from the crowd. That, Anne thought, was a blessing. Relaxation would be better, making it come when she least expected it.
</p><p>
The woman felt a breeze, and for a moment the feeling of cold metal against her warm skin was a welcome feeling during the warm Spring morning. Sudden pain spread through her, more than she’d felt in her life - perhaps save for the pains of childbearing - and Anne realised that was it. 
</p><p>
Flames were devouring her throat, it seemed; the woman wanted with all her heart to clutch at her neck, to keep her head on her body, but she knew it was useless.
</p><p>
It was already gone.
</p>
<hr/><p>
Heather Chandler could breathe. It was a feeling she’d not realised she missed, and she was… Outside an office? It reminded her vaguely of her father’s old office, she thought, and she smirked as she gazed at the door.
</p><p>
“Heather,” said a voice, and the door opened to reveal a tall man. His dark hair and icy-blue eyes were captivating, and a pale light flashed on his temple. Heather wondered for a moment what the light was for before processing that he’d asked her to come inside. She nodded, feeling more at peace than she had in years.
</p><p>
He sat down at a desk, gesturing for her to do the same. Heather complied with his wishes, not saying anything. The man folded his hands on the desk, giving her a soft, almost sympathetic, smile. “You, Heather Chandler, are dead.”
</p><p>
Heather wasn’t sure what to think for a moment. <em>What?</em> No, that couldn’t be true. She had been about to get Corn Nuts!”
</p><p>
Still, as she sat in the big leather chair, her grey eyes widened a minuscule amount at his words. “What. The. Fork.”
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Translations:</p><p>"Pourquoi?" = "Why?"</p><p>"Pourquoi fallait-il que ce soit moi?" = "Why did it have to be me?"</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://hitfoh.tumblr.com">Tumblr Here!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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